"One hundred gold dragons on the Hound!" Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish called out from the stands.
"I'll bet on Caesar!" Lord Renly replied immediately. "Any knight who can beat me must be destined to win the championship."
King Robert, overhearing his brother's comment, burst into laughter.
"If winning against you makes a champion, we could have a hundred champions here today! Hahaha!"
Unfazed, Renly smiled smoothly and asked, "And who do you think will win, Your Grace?"
Robert put down his horned cup and answered, "The brandy served here is from Caesar's land, isn't it?"
"Yes," Renly confirmed.
"Then my money's on him! If he can make such a strong drink, he's got to be a strong fighter!"
Queen Cersei suddenly cut in with a cold tone, "Your Grace, are you forgetting that Samwell once bore the name Tarly?"
"I know that well enough," Robert replied with a grunt. "He's Randyll Tarly's son, after all."
"Ah, so you remember," Cersei sneered, "I thought you might have forgotten just how badly he defeated you at Ashford."
Robert smirked. "Unlike you, woman, I don't hold petty grudges. I'd drink with Randyll Tarly even now. Of course, after that, we'd have to fight again! Hahaha!"
Cersei rolled her eyes and turned to Littlefinger, "My wager is on Sandor Clegane."
"I'll bet on the Hound too!" shouted Joffrey.
"I'll bet on Clegane!"
"I'll bet on Caesar!"
The nobles joined in, making their own wagers.
Even Margaery Tyrell stood up, calling, "Lord Baelish, I'll put my wager on Lord Caesar! And my brother Loras's wager too!"
Then she glanced over at Nathalie beside her and asked, "Nathalie, will you bet as well?"
"I… I don't have much money," Nathalie murmured, gripping her dress anxiously.
"Don't worry, I'll cover it for you." Without waiting for a reply, Margaery turned back to Baelish, "And one for Lady Nathalie too, on Lord Caesar!"
Meanwhile, Samwell Caesar was downing a glass of chilled milk by the field, following it with a handful of berries before donning his helmet and mounting his horse.
Forty thousand gold dragons, here I come!
Pumping himself up, Samwell grabbed his lance from his squire, nudged his horse forward, and entered the field.
The Hound, Sandor Clegane, was already there. Without a word, Sandor lowered his visor and readied his lance.
The horn sounded, and the two knights charged.
The temporary stands trembled under the pounding of hooves as they gained speed.
Samwell leaned forward, his lance steady. But just as he was about to strike, Sandor skillfully twisted his shield, deflecting the blow and forcing Samwell's lance off course. At the same time, Sandor's lance struck Samwell cleanly, causing wood splinters to scatter.
Samwell wobbled in the saddle, barely managing to stay mounted.
Nathalie gasped in shock, clutching her hands to her mouth.
"Looks like I'll be planning how to spend your money," Littlefinger remarked to Renly with a grin.
"The match isn't over yet," Renly countered with confidence.
At the edge of the field, Sandor tossed aside his broken lance, only to hear his squire gasp, "My lord, your hand—"
Sandor looked down, noticing blood staining his right hand. The clash with his brother, the Mountain, had already opened up his knuckles, and this match had aggravated the injury.
"Just give me the lance!" Sandor growled at his squire, who hurriedly handed him a new one despite his bleeding hand.
Sandor kicked his horse forward, charging once again.
Samwell, by now prepared, met Sandor's charge. This time, Samwell waited patiently, only thrusting his lance at the last moment, just as Sandor's lance was about to hit.
Crash!
Both lances shattered.
When the splinters settled, it was clear that the Hound's saddle was empty—Sandor lay sprawled on the ground, having been unhorsed. Meanwhile, Samwell was still steady in his saddle, riding through the echoes of his charge.
A roar of cheers erupted from the stands.
"Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!"
Petyr Baelish sighed, shaking his head, "Ah, fortune never favors me."
Renly laughed heartily. "Perhaps it's time to quit gambling, Littlefinger."
"No chance," Littlefinger retorted, "Life would be meaningless without a little risk."
Bang!
King Robert slammed his fist onto the table in glee. "Hahaha! I told you he'd win!"
He turned to Cersei, grinning. "Pay up, woman!"
Cersei's pale face turned an angry shade of green as she spat, "A Lannister always pays their debts," before turning away from her triumphant husband.
"We won! We won! Lord Caesar is amazing!" Nathalie squealed, bouncing with joy.
Hugging Margaery, she asked excitedly, "Does this mean I'll get lots of money?"
"Absolutely," Margaery replied, hugging Nathalie back and playfully kissing her on the cheek, "Lots of money!"
Samwell, having claimed victory, rode around the field, acknowledging the crowd's cheers with graceful bows.
Finally, he dismounted before the royal pavilion, knelt, and announced, "Your Grace, I dedicate this victory and honor to you!"
Robert laughed heartily, waving him over. "Come here, my champion!"
Samwell approached the king's table.
Robert stood, lifting two horned drinking cups as he did. Only now did Samwell realize that the king was even taller than himself, and far more solidly built, radiating a powerful presence.
"Here, my champion," Robert said, handing him a cup, "This is your Brandy! Drink up!"
Samwell eyed the massive cup, feeling a pang of apprehension—it reminded him too much of those corporate events in his past life where clients would push him to drink.
But now, he could only grit his teeth, take the cup, and down its contents in one go.
Gulp, gulp…
By the time Samwell finished, his head was spinning.
Robert roared with laughter, slapping him on the back. "Not much of a drinker, are you, boy?"
Then, taking a flowered laurel wreath from a tray held by a servant, Robert handed it to Samwell.
"Now go, choose your Queen of Love and Beauty."
"Yes, Your Grace." Samwell accepted the wreath, noticing a flicker of sadness in Robert's eyes.
In that instant, he understood—the king was recalling that fateful tourney at Harrenhal, where the champion had been none other than Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Rhaegar had famously passed over his own wife, Princess Elia Martell, to crown Robert's fiancée, Lyanna Stark, sparking the chain of events that led to Robert's Rebellion.
This laurel wreath, it seemed, could have consequences.
Samwell weighed his options carefully. Margaery Tyrell was a natural choice, but crowning her now might be too overt a move politically. Crowning Nathalie Dayne was tempting as well, but given that two knights who pursued her had recently died, this choice might draw unwanted attention.
Typically, a champion without a clear favorite would offer the wreath to the host's daughter as a gesture of gratitude.
Since the tournament had been held in the name of the Hand of the King, it would make sense to crown Sansa Stark. But she was betrothed to Joffrey—a choice best avoided, considering the prince's notorious temper.
In the end, he decided on Arya Stark's younger sister. But as he scanned the seats for her, Arya was nowhere to be found—likely off on one of her adventures.
Left with few options, Samwell turned his attention to the king's daughter, Princess Myrcella Baratheon.
She was still young, not yet ten, but she'd inherited her mother's beauty without her temperament.
She should be a safe choice, he thought.
So, under the gaze of the crowd, the young champion knight approached the royal seats and gently placed the laurel wreath on Myrcella's lap.
"Princess Myrcella, I name you my Queen of Love and Beauty."
"Thank you, Lord Caesar!" Myrcella stammered, her cheeks flushed with excitement. This moment felt like something from a song, and her heart raced with joy. "It's the greatest honor!"
As Myrcella placed the wreath on her head, the crowd erupted in applause.
By now, night had fallen, and the jousting was over. King Robert announced that the day's festivities were complete, with archery and the melee to follow the next day.
As the commoners slowly dispersed, excitedly discussing the day's events and the newly crowned champion, the nobles made their way to the riverside bonfire feast.
Intent on collecting his forty thousand gold dragons, Samwell sought out Petyr Baelish.
"Patience, Lord Caesar," Littlefinger replied with a smile, "The prize will be awarded after the tournament ends."
Samwell sighed. "Very well, Lord Baelish. Forgive my eagerness; my lands are still in the early stages of development, and there's much that needs funding."
"Oh, I understand," Petyr said with a sympathetic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Though I did hear that after the skirmish at Starfall, you received a rather hefty war indemnity from House Dayne?"
Samwell let out a deep sigh. "Ah, Lord Baelish, it seems you haven't heard the full story. House Dayne's coffers are a bit strained, so I allowed them to prioritize paying my allies' reparations first. My own share is still unpaid."
"How gallant of you, Lord Caesar," Petyr's smile grew sly. "But, if I may offer a word of advice: in a city like King's Landing, don't put too much faith in allies."
Samwell feigned a perplexed, innocent look. "My lord, I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
Petyr gave a knowing chuckle, patting Samwell's shoulder like an elder imparting a valuable life lesson. "This city is built on deception. The very air reeks of treachery and betrayal," he whispered, leaning closer. "You'll never survive here if you cling to old-fashioned ideas of trust."
"Is that so?" Samwell asked, still maintaining a naïve expression. "But… surely, it would be against a knight's code of honor?"
Littlefinger gave him a mocking laugh, his eyes narrowing. "The code of knighthood won't protect you here, Lord Caesar. This is King's Landing," he said, his voice low and sinister. "Think of it like a brothel: if you walk in acting all pious, you'll never get what you came for. You have to be willing to play the game, to touch and take."
With that, Littlefinger threw him one last smirk and walked off, vanishing into the night's shadows.
Samwell watched him go, resisting the urge to shudder. For all his charming facade, Petyr Baelish was as dangerous as any knight with a sword—a man who wielded secrets like weapons, and who, he suspected, might already be scheming against him.
Still, as Samwell watched the bonfire flicker against the evening sky, he couldn't help but smile.
Let him plot, he thought. I have plans of my own.
(End of Chapter)